Beware Greeks Bearing Gifts
by TheCleverMagpie
Summary: Because even Le Chiffre had a sense of self preservation over and above his own ego. Shame that he couldn't say the same of James Bond. Set during the events of the 2006 Casino Royale film, but with a twist. (James Bond/Le Chiffre)
1. Sinon

Chapter 1

**Sinon**

He was sure not many people did, but he remembered his fifth birthday with innate clarity. The long table at the cafe had been dingy and scratched, and the smell of coffee almost overwhelming. Faces of friends and family had been keen and expectant when he opened the single gifts from his parents. His father's revealed a large dictionary and thesaurus, his mother's a small but exquisitely crafted chess set. It was then that he'd known what his father, the writer, wanted of him and what his mother, the trapped genius, recognised in his potential. On that day his childish mind had decided who to love and who to resent.

He saw her in himself, not much but enough to remind him of her when he smiled. Same full lips and deep cupids bow, same well formed, high cheekbones, same IQ. Perhaps a shadow of her superior lilt in the way he tipped his head. His mother had been a beautiful, insightful woman right up to the moment she hanged herself, after all.

He could also at least attribute his poker face to her, perhaps, along with the fine education she had insisted upon him having. He hadn't flinched when he gutted his father for his betrayal, for driving his mother to leave them both permanently. Had even taken the forethought to bind him upon a plastic sheet in the lavish garage. No one ever saw him again. As far as Le Chiffre was concerned Jean Duran had died the day his sixteen year old feet ran into the garden to see his mother's pale blue heels sticking out from the heavy foliage of the oak tree behind his bedroom.

These days, looking in the mirror, sometimes he felt that all he could see were his bilious left eye and the milky pallor of his skin, remnants of his father's weak lineage. It made him wish, not for the first time, that he could be rid of it. Of course it was useful for some things, such as disquieting those he wished to disquiet. Not many could stand his stare for long. As he was finding now.

"A name," he said as his gaze alone tagged on, if you make me repeat myself one more time I'll take your eyes first.

"You didn't hire me for a name, just the p-pictures," the man stammered, said eyes flicking up towards the end of the alleyway; Le Chiffre would not deign to remind the man that his pictures had been worthless, nothing within them to tell him what he needed.

"Then perhaps I did not make myself clear," Le Chiffre said, unable to lose the demure patter he kept for guests even as his anger slipped; he had been at a gathering only half an hour ago, champagne and salmon tartar, and couldn't fully shake off the persona, "I am asking you for the name now. Do you think I am stupid enough to ask you for a thing you do not have?"

"No! No," the man panicked, his greasy blonde hair slapping against his forehead distastefully as he juddered his head, "only the name I got wasn't a real name."

"Then give me what you have," Le Chiffre sighed, rubbing at the irritated skin by his left eye.

"Sifar, he called himself Sifar," the man spat out, fumbling with his white cotton shirt and wiping sweat from his brow, "and he spoke with an accent."

He did not ask because he was past asking. He did not want to test himself lest his temper still the man's lips before he had all that he wanted. Instead he continued to stare until it was unmistakable that he expected the man to keep talking.

"H-he sounded German," the man scurried out, "or Scandinavian. Maybe eastern block at a push."

"So you're telling me he could be from anywhere in upper Europe," Le Chiffre said, smiling dryly to try and cover his telling twitch, "or beyond."

"That's as much as I could get," the man, obviously used to dealing information, had obviously picked up on the folly of greedily taking the high pay Le Chiffre had offered for this job, "he met with Ghamlen. There was a suitcase, money I think, it could have been..."

It had been enough to listen to the man's incompetence before, but now hearing him scrabble for anything that might save him was pitiful. Le Chiffre pulled the silenced pistol from the holster under his arm and aimed, realising only too late that the alley was a touch narrower than he had first thought. The man lunged at him with eyes wild and hot breath caught in a keen. Hands grabbed his own, forcing the pistol up and the soft pip of the bullet ricocheting off of brick. Le Chiffre braced himself for the impact of the wall against his back and struggled fitfully, cursing his lack of focus as his heart began hammering in his chest. The tight grip swung his arms to the left, then the right, then left again and down onto a large metal bin.

The impact against his wrist hit the bone, screaming sharp agony, enough to loosen his fingers and let the gun jump down onto the ground with a clatter. He could feel the panic rising in his system; enough to react rashly. His knee jerked up forcefully into the man's groin once, twice, and his contact crumpled to his knees involuntarily, his grip on Le Chiffre's hands loosening enough to break free. Another knee caught him in the face and the man was left supine on the filthy ground while Le Chiffre pulled the concealed switchblade from his waistband and unfolded it with a flick of his wrist.

The adrenaline in his system was making the blood rush in his ears, mixing with the pain and the anger. There was brief struggle as he knelt down, hips astride the reeling man's pelvis, and aimed for his throat. Hands jumped up against his chest and Le Chiffre let out a snarl as he slammed the slim 'hilt' of the blade against the man's vulnerable temple twice in quick succession. Hands were weary now as they continued shaking up to his throat, blearily trying to aim for his eyes. He didn't give the man his chance. The blade slid into the flesh of his neck and pierced the artery pumping there, the force of the man's heart causing the crimson fluid to spurt. He could feel it against his face. It didn't take long for him to die, it was just messier than Le Chiffre had wanted.

To see what he had been reduced to; his mother would be disgusted. Meeting underlings in back alleys for information. His heart slowed from its racing pace as he stood but Le Chiffre still crammed his hand into his pocket for his Salbutamol inhaler, taking a swift shot from the device to calm his contracting lungs. It was distasteful to do so but he leaned back against the grimy wall, running his hand up through his dishevelled hair, slicking it back into place. He wiped the spattered blood from his face onto a handkerchief from his breast pocket.

The man at his feet seemed all the more worse for wear as the pool of arterial blood began to build around his cheaply dressed, crumpled form. Le Chiffre had never fooled himself into thinking he was built to be a fighter, he knew where his strengths lay, but when backed into a corner he tended to revert to an instinctual viciousness. He was glad for that tonight and decided that these chances were perhaps not as lucrative as he had hoped for.

He grimaced as he looked down at his ruined trousers and dinner jacket. The sweat on his brow had mixed with the blood, creating a pink sheen on the white material of his handkerchief as it was wiped away. He rubbed at his right wrist, wincing at the pain and the already discolouring flesh. Another drawback of his constitution, he thought, being how easily he bruised.

He cleaned his blade on the dead man's shirt before recovering his lost pistol and re-holstering it. Now that the adrenaline was gone the anger was seeping back, now belied by a rising sense of panic that he did not enjoy in the slightest. Sifar, what a pitifully overdramatic name he sneered, walking back towards his car in the warm, dark Paris night. Zero, it meant, nil, nothing. He felt it was an absurd play upon his own moniker and did not appreciate the further intrusion on his business.

He entered the Bentley with little care and used a secure phone for a clean-up. The body should be gone before anyone found it.

* * *

It had been a month and a half since Le Chiffre had become aware of a plot against his untouchable empire. At the beginning it had been somewhat amusing; the very idea that someone would deign to outwit him. As days had marched on the small seed of doubt which had been sown within him had grown larger and larger still. Opportunities missed, work taking priority, background chatter, the growing sense of unease that made him realise that the betrayal was surely coming from within. Friends going dark, refusing him help, and even friends dying off in numbers too big to ignore. When potential clients had begun refusing his services Le Chiffre had been forced to realise the potentially fatal situation he had found himself in.

The yacht was quiet on his return; the way he liked it. Kratt met him at the entrance to his living quarters and did not mention or react to his dishevelled state. Le Chiffre entered his large bedroom and removed his clothes, putting on his dressing gown. He placed his ruined dinner suit by the door to be disposed of before stepping into the spray of the glass encased shower. He took his time smothering himself in strong smelling liquid soap, watching as the dirt and blood washed down the plughole. His wrist twinged as he scrubbed his hair. The water was warm but he reached out to turn it higher, then a little more. It burned against his skin but that didn't matter. He stared at the fogged glass and felt the roiling swirl of dread build in his gut until he found himself standing, clean of soap and shampoo, under the spray of the shower with his hands against the wet tile.

It did not leave him as he dried himself and dressed in a thin, black cashmere jumper and pale brown trousers. Where did the sense of safekeeping slip to, he wondered with wry humour as he checked the laptop by his bed for communications on his latest venture. Nothing new. The sight burned more than the scalding water of the shower had. A tongue darted out to wet his lips and he resisted the sudden flare of temper that was eliciting him to break something in the close vicinity. He could feel the distortion of his lips as he swallowed the feeling down into his gut to sit with his unease, panic, fear and sheer fury.

Without thinking too much about what he was doing he pressed the intercom for Kratt's earpiece.

"Where is Valenka?"

"She is still attending the midnight ball," Kratt replied, "shall I fetch her for you?"

"No," he said after a moment's hesitation, "no, find me a distraction."

"Right away."

He was somewhat glad that Valenka was off ship. Not that he cared what she thought of him. As far as he was concerned she was a glorified trophy which he had won fair and square. Only a trophy was not to be desired or used beyond the winning. He was sure she was under no delusion that he loved her but he knew she was a jealous type regardless. She liked things to be hers just as much as he liked things to be his. Perhaps a foolish choice in partner but then her father hadn't seemed to mind sacrificing his only daughter to his whims. That, in itself, had been pleasing. If there was one thing Valenka owed him it was his 'rescuing' her from her pig of a father. True her life was probably just as restricted now as it had been then, but at least he did not demand sex of her as her father had. She did seem to appreciate that even if she disliked his preferred tastes.

The young man was already there when he stepped out into the living room area. Red wine and two glasses had been placed on the glass table and the lighting set to an ambient level, making the white leather chairs gleam in the reflection of the dark windows. He was early twenties, Le Chiffre would have guessed, brown hair with a hint of russet, pretty face but with a long nose that could have done with shortening, and rather stunning blue eyes. Le Chiffre was just glad that Kratt appeared to know his tastes well enough now to find him something he would appreciate. He took his time appraising the man until he was sure the other felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

"May I pour you a drink?" the man asked in English but swamped by a heavy French accent.

"Yes," he said, trying to keep his voice free of the trembling that was wracking his insides; he walked out into the room, down the two steps into the sunken area and then let out a sound of frustration. The young man looked up in surprise, his hand reaching out for the bottle, "actually no, don't bother."

The young man didn't resist as he was taken by arm and neck and kissed forcefully. Le Chiffre guessed he was used to it. He wished to take it long and slow, as he usually would, but the want for a distraction was more urgent than he had realised. He hurried past foreplay, pulling the young man by the hand into his bedroom and throwing the door shut, locked. After a brief rummage for a condom and a quick undressing he had him on all fours on the bed, thrusting eagerly into the tight heat of the young man's body.

It was rougher than he'd usually be, he knew from the muttered French cusses escaping the young man's lips and the occasional whimper, but at that moment he didn't care. The building orgasm in his gut seemed to be having the reverse effect of what he had hoped for. With every wanton shove of his hips the panic merely mixed with the ecstasy, creating a crescendo of fear and bliss in his system that was difficult to bear. He grabbed the young man's shoulders and hauled him upright, forcing a cry from him. Le Chiffre growled at the change, the tightness gripping him, tearing at him, and forced the young man's head around to claim his mouth awkwardly.

He was vaguely aware of voices beyond the doorway, the handle on the door turning but stopping as the young man beneath him was unable to contain his release, yelling. He continued regardless of the interruption, going until he thought the feeling might overwhelm him. Shaking hands gripped his hips as the young man came too quickly. Le Chiffre dropped him as he slumped forwards, continuing his punishing rhythm until he too found the release he had been seeking.

Only it didn't do what it was supposed to. It was supposed to keep the fear from trembling inside of him, was supposed to replace that with warm heat and the sheer boneless relaxation that came with the post coital haze. Instead, as he pulled off the soiled condom and disposed of it, his legs somewhat weak, the feeling appeared to be amplified through his tingling, sensitive nerves. Who, who, who, he couldn't help but think over and over again, and how?

The buzz in his mind, still rushing with endorphins, allowed for starkness he didn't think he would have allowed of his own thoughts otherwise. I'm dead if this isn't stopped. Why play at seizing the throne? It's what I would do. They'll kill me and no one will be left to stop them. The thought sent a cold stream of reality coursing down his spine.

"Get out," Le Chiffre said to the young man still laying on the bed, blinking his eyes slowly, as he dressed himself once more.

"But I..." he started, sitting up with a wince.

"Do not make me repeat myself."

It was somewhat mollifying to know he could still terrify with six words alone. The young man was dressed and out the door within three minutes. Kratt would take care of it, he always did.

Le Chiffre licked at his lips and let out a distasteful sound as he realised he would need another shower. Later, he thought shakily, instead deciding a glass of wine would perhaps dull the nerves he'd been seeking to confuse with pleasure.

He found Valenka standing by the window, arms crossed tightly, staring out into the dark bay. He poured himself a large glass of wine and took a mouthful before putting it back down, walking up to join her. He was not surprised by her shrugging his hand from her shoulder, but the slap was rather unexpected. So much so that he blinked in shock for a few startled seconds before his hand was round her throat and he had her up against the glass.

"You smell of cheap cologne," he hissed as her eyes widened with fear at the crushing fingers against her windpipe, "but you don't see me indulging in petty jealousy."

"At least I don't let you catch me fucking other people," she choked out.

"I don't have to justify myself to you," he said tightly, feeling a familiar warm wetness running across his left cheek and down into the dip of his nostril, "considering I don't wish to fuck you at all."

"Idi na xuy husesos," she growled before spitting in his face.

He jerked her aside at the motion, closing his eyes against the indecorous gesture. She was stumbling up as he blinked open his eyes, storming towards the deck. He didn't follow. Violence wouldn't help, just as the pleasure had failed him. He stood for a few minutes, alone, and breathed steadily through his nose, eyes closed. Eventually he walked to the bathroom and washed his face, dabbing at the blood dripping from his eye until it stopped.

A sound from across the room got his attention. Le Chiffre walked to his laptop while patting his face dry with a soft towel. A message sat in his inbox, seemingly unassuming, with only one word encased inside.

Ellipsis.

It should have brought a smile to his lips but unfortunately it merely compounded his ire. Money wasn't his problem right now. Information was. It seemed that, right now, all the money in the world wouldn't stop the knife sliding into his back when he dropped his guard at just the wrong moment.

"Leo," he said into the intercom, "inform the captain that I want him in the Bahamas in two weeks, Nassau harbour. And I want the jet prepped and ready in an hour."

"Where for, sir?" Leo always insisted on the title, no matter that Le Chiffre had tried to train the habit out of him.

"Lynden Pindling International," he said, "and book me the usual."

"Of course, sir."

The least he could do was go ahead with his current plans. Even though money wasn't his direct concern, it wouldn't do him any harm to have more of it to play with.

* * *

AN: "Idi na xuy husesos" means 'Fuck off, cocksucker' in Russian


	2. Odysseus

Chapter 2

**Odysseus**

The heat was oppressive and unappreciated. He was accustomed to air conditioning and chilled, bottled water, not the lame breeze of a rattling fan and lukewarm soda, which he had politely declined. Still, as it had been the first positive thing to happen to him in the last two weeks, he wouldn't complain. Standing in the ramshackle hut in front of an insolently lounging warlord with the annoying pings of a pinball machine ricocheting in the background, Le Chiffre felt the sweat bead between his shoulder blades before sliding uncomfortably down to soak into the waistband of his trousers.

"And I can access it anywhere in the world?" he was asked.

"Of course."

The man smiled unpleasantly, steepling his fingers.

"Do you believe in God, Mister Le Chiffre?"

A terrible quip rose unbidden to his lips, unsaid: please, Mister Le Chiffre is my father. Instead he settled for a less inflammatory remark, yet unable to lose the wry humour.

"No," he said, watching the man's eyes narrow, "I believe in a reasonable rate of return."

The meeting couldn't have been over fast enough as far as he was concerned. Mr. White had stood in the background like a gargoyle the entire time, just over his shoulder, with the edges of his mouth tripping downwards unattractively. It had made him feel watched; an unappreciated feeling considering his heightened state of paranoia.

"Just make sure this goes smoothly," White had said to him as they stood by the mud splattered jeeps.

"Your obvious doubt is noted," Le Chiffre had said, "and ignored."

White's angular frown had worsened. Le Chiffre hadn't bothered to correct it, even though he knew he was playing with fire. One thing he had noted with his paranoia, it made him reckless. He would have to watch that. He most certainly didn't consider White a friend, or even an ally, but he was one of the few contacts he had left who he believed would lose too much by his demise to make him a suspect for the coup.

* * *

By the time he had returned to the Bahamas his yacht had already arrived. As had the bad news.

"This is what I get for hiring through substandard agencies," he muttered to himself even as Kratt stood by, waiting patiently for his orders.

Le Chiffre was far angrier than he was letting on, anyone who knew him well could have seen that. Only, not many knew him well enough to know that the angrier he became the more he enjoyed a rather masochistic form of humour.

He closed the two day old news article on the screen, British Government Agent Kills Unarmed Prisoner, and tapped his index finger lightly against the enter key. After a few second's deliberation he thought it prudent to act on his usual style instead of trying to adapt.

"I want to know who he is, who he works for, why he was following our man and, if possible, friends and family," Le Chiffre said curtly, "and bring me Dimitrios."

He knew it wouldn't take long to fetch the man but, in the mean time, he retired to his cabin and, toeing off his shoes just as his parents had always rebuked him for, he lay down on the bed and dozed. He recognised jet lag when it crept up on him, and in the past week alone he had travelled over fourteen thousand miles setting up his latest venture. He could feel the dragging time in his limbs, waiting to catch up to the flagging Bahamas daylight which his mind was sure should be black midnight, or thereabouts.

He reached over with a lazy hand and pressed the control panel beside the bed, the high windows dimming as they polarised. The darkness was welcome and he sighed through his nose, feeling the tightness in his shoulders relax, even if only slightly.

Another setback; the thought was intrusive to his calm but necessary to deliberate. British Government Agent. Then their man had been under suspicion already. No use for him in the first place, he thought, not for someone who would need to infiltrate the sensitive areas of Miami International Airport. Still soaking in his perverse need for inappropriate humour Le Chiffre almost wondered if he should thank this nameless, faceless agent for ridding him of an unknown problem. He did not suppress the smile but restrained the laugh, turning onto his side and slipping his eyes closed.

Next he knew he was blinking awake to a steady knock at the door. He sat up and lifted the polarisation on the windows only to be greeted with a similar darkness, barely tinged with a faint glow of dusk. He rubbed at his right eye with soft fingertips and then at the stiff muscles in his neck. He stood, raising the lights with a word and opening his walk in wardrobe. He changed into a light, white shirt and rolled up the cuffs, discarding the now crumpled one onto a spare hanger.

Kratt stood by the door as Le Chiffre emerged.

"Dimitrios is on the bridge for you," he said, his voice naturally soft.

"Good," Le Chiffre said as he walked along the carpeted hallway, "any news on our agent?"

"His name is James Bond," Kratt said as they entered the business end of the ship, "MI6. As for further information, he's an orphan with no siblings and, as far as we can see, no significant familiarities to speak of," Le Chiffre wouldn't say he hadn't expected as much, "and so it seems our man Mollaka was under surveillance by the British Secret Service."

"And now we're about to find out why," Le Chiffre said more to himself than Kratt as he pushed open the door to the bridge.

* * *

Again, just as things began looking up in one area the crushing sense of dread was redoubled in another.

Heni Marville-Beau, found dead in his London penthouse. Le Chiffre had not known him personally but had partaken of his services on several occasions to deal with certain problems. He was...had been an expert marksman and an unsurpassable sniper.

Yet it was not the loss of the man that made Le Chiffre narrow his eyes and rub at the stinging in his left temple. Most telling of all, as far as he was concerned, had been Heni's connection to Quantum. As so many others who'd gone dark since the beginning of all this mess had been.

Now he was left, sitting staring at the screen, wondering if looking to his friends for suspects and not his employers had been a large oversight on his part. If he was correct, and at the moment it was just a hunch, then he considered himself, in a spark of startling clarity, entirely beyond help. If Quantum wanted him dead then he was dead, end of story. Le Chiffre swallowed and dismissed the thought, filing it away in case it ever became useful again. He hoped it wouldn't.

If there was one thing Le Chiffre refused to believe it was that he had been beaten. Not like this, not with now way out. There was always a way out.

* * *

A familiar nightmare, but still no less disturbing for its familiarity. The light wavered and his ears boomed with the familiar, internal thump of his own heart echoing. The water pressed in around his face as the hand at the back of his neck tightened. Desperate lips straining to stay closed. A shake, a warble of breath fluttering out in a stream of bubbles. He felt his eyes sting as he tried to look at the darkness below him, unable to see the bottom.

He tried to scream even though he knew it was sheer madness to do so. The sudden remembrance of chill water sucking down his throat and into his lungs brought him into choking consciousness. He awoke gasping for breath, clutching at his chest, face soaked with sweat. The bedcovers were in disarray, half flopped onto the floor. He kicked away the remains still tangled around his feet and legs before stumbling for the bathroom. Too close to the dream to dare a shower, he instead mopped himself down with a cold cloth and listened as the soft patter of rain spattered against the window.

Stress, he said to himself. It always came with stress, not that he knew why. The psychology of it wasn't something he wished to dwell upon. Instead he dried and dressed himself, despite it being five thirty two in the morning, and visited his private study in order to continue working without any disturbances. He spent the next four hours checking the state of his stocks, double checking transfers with accounts, making sure his middleman had purchased all of the necessary subsidiaries he required and, when he became bored and frustrated, beaten six high ranking, insomniac chess players in an average of under three minutes each.

It was at eight forty nine in the morning that an email came through to his private account labelled: **from a friend**. He had stared at it sleepily for a few seconds before realising how incongruous it was, then how entirely unknown it was, then how completely frightening that was. He felt suddenly awake as he sat up in his chair, watching the screen and blinking as if that would wipe the anomaly from his eyes. It was still there, however, staring at him. Unknown Sender. Le Chiffre felt his eye twitch and rubbed at the skin softly as he ran the email through every scanner he had. Once he was sure it was clean he stared at it for a while longer until he began to feel as if he were going mad and, eventually, opened it.

[Seems you're losing friends at a rate of knots. Perhaps you should think about getting some new ones.

Also, White isn't your colour. You should watch out for that.]

When he realised he was half way out of his chair and his mouth had fallen open, ready to call Kratt or anyone, someone, to come and trace this message...he stopped. His mind was rushing but only in the usual, logical manner it did when he calculated odds. He sat back down, swallowing away the needless and irrational prickle of eyes upon his person, and looked at the email properly.

No sender, no name, no details, yet it was someone close or perhaps just someone looking too closely at him. Neither were enviable isn't your colour. Literally or figuratively? He chose figuratively because of the previous metaphor used and because his paranoia appreciated it. Then could this be a colleague, warning him that his fears were potentially correct? Had someone else picked up on the growing pattern in their associates' dropping numbers? It must be a colleague. Who else knew of White's identity? The man was even more of a spectre than he was.

After half an hour of following the trail alone he finally realised that he'd been sent around the world chasing the sender only to come straight back to the beginning again: Paradise Island. From here, the email had been sent from here. His muscles tensed. Then it could be a colleague, or someone in his employ. Ha, he thought dismissively, chance would be a fine thing. And he knew chance, all too well. For all the luck he was having lately he wouldn't be surprised if MI6 had tracked him down. The thought, even as a joke, made him feel slightly ill; as if the wolves were closing in from all sides.

He wanted it gone, disposed of, but also felt that may be an imprudent move. There's always a way out. No sense in burning bridges before checking if the moat was dry. Still, Le Chiffre felt shaken. He would have to keep this breach to himself, follow it with his own eyes. Revealing this to anyone he wasn't one hundred percent certain was loyal to him and he was risking a swift assassination. If there was one thing Quantum demanded then it was loyalty. Unfortunately, it appeared that its employees could not expect the same courtesy in return.

The day fell into a malaise of irritating reports and bright sunshine. Le Chiffre decided to stay aboard while Valenka went ashore, saying she wanted a swim and a martini. When he informed her she could have both where she already was she became sullen and seemed to revel in showing off the bruises at her throat with the dress she chose to wear that day. Le Chiffre became quickly tired of her antics and asked Leo to take her wherever she wanted to go. That had rid him of a nuisance he did not need, at least, although he did feel somewhat aimless as he sat in the living room, the windows dimmed, and read while he waited for things to fall into place elsewhere.

A delightful distraction came in the form of a request later that evening from a known associate, Madame Wu, who had a 'friend' she wished to introduce to his poker table. He had taken the opportunity even though he was not truthfully in a state to play host. He allowed himself the diversion because he did not wish to allow his perfect shell to crack and let others see the nervousness inside. So he enjoyed cleaning 'the general' out. Valenka had even deigned to return, obviously having refused to use the gangway and swum back to the boat as she walked through the room in her blue bathing suit, towel around her neck to hide the mistreatment there. Le Chiffre appreciated the gesture, no matter how small. He knew he had a reputation as a sadistic bastard but he'd prefer to keep that for his enemies alone.

* * *

"I understand there have been some complications," White's voice was unmistakably superior, stretching out his vowels just a mote too long.

"Nothing that hasn't been rectified," Le Chiffre replied, looking down at the man's face on the screen, regarding him dispassionately.

"Good to hear," White said, looking not a jot as pleased as he apparently was, "then we await your confirmation of funds transferred."

"At the usual time," Le Chiffre nodded, hearing Valenka walk behind him; he reached forwards to end the call but was stalled by White's addendum.

"I see your beau is still with us," White said, a slight smile to the ends of his lips.

"I...yes," he cursed himself for his hesitation.

"Apparently she made quite a devastating impression on the General," White said, "I do hope you can perhaps have the same impression on Skyfleet."

The transmission went dead without his permission. He stared, hand shaking slightly as it hovered over the keyboard.

"I'm going out onto the deck, would you like to come?" he heard Valenka ask; the next thing he knew there was a soft touch on his shoulder and he snapped his head up to look at her, "...is everything alright?"

"Yes," he lied, "everything is fine. I'm busy right now, I'll join you later."

Instead he waited for her to leave before sitting down heavily in his chair and trying to run through contingency plans in his head. Beau. White could have picked from any number of words, lover, beauty, woman, girlfriend; instead he chose beau. The use of the single incongruous term turned the rest of the man's words from polite and humourless encouragement into a thinly veiled threat. At first he tried to convince himself that it was purely a coincidence but failed miserably. Le Chiffre did not believe in coincidences. The odds were too high.

Heni Marville-Beau had been no accident; and now, by extension, he could assume the others over the past few months hadn't been either. Had White wanted him to know that or had he simply enjoyed making the pun? Surely not. White was a business man and, as far as Le Chiffre had noticed, had no sense of humour whatsoever. It was what made him so incredibly dull.

He felt his fingers cramp into fists, trying to contain his shaking, angry worry. He pressed his right fist to his mouth and swallowed. If he was correct in his workings, and Le Chiffre always prided himself in his workings, then the threat was that he would be disposed of if he failed, that much was clear. Had the others outlived their usefulness? Was that what they thought of him? He was no longer useful now that he had competition? That all he was worth now was a bullet between the eyes from a high calibre rifle?

Then this will not fail, he thought desperately of the Skyfleet prototype. There's no way it can fail. Or perhaps there are thousands of ways it can fail, and you know every last one of them. In truth, he was beginning to wonder if White and Quantum were willing to sabotage his plan purposefully so as to have a legitimate reason for killing and replacing him. No, he thought, too much money at stake, too much for them to lose. They wouldn't need the impetus anyway. If they wanted him gone then no one would ever find the body.

His fists uncurled as he sat, thinking things through; the first sign that he was being half way rational about a situation that had forced him into irrationality. At this point, so close to the expiration of Ellipsis, he had very little room to manoeuvre. He pushed his fingertips softly over the plush leather arms of the chair, leaning his head back and loosening out his neck. He recognised the ingrained relaxation that came with feeling distinctly trapped, hating it for what it was.

The email had come from Paradise Island but had been bounced through several servers and IP addresses in order to disorientate. Only if the person had known who they were contacting they must have had a certain idea of his capabilities, and that he was able to trace almost anything.

The email was beginning to look less like a warning, nothing like a threat and more like, dare he even think it, an invitation. How obtuse a method for something so dangerous, he thought with distaste even as he found himself somewhat intrigued. The fear of death lingering over his shoulder was also a suitable motivation.

With his rationality screaming at him that this was a very bad idea and that being rash certainly wasn't his forte, but with his intuition desperately trying to steer him from harm, Le Chiffre typed a reply.

[I do not think that 'friends' is an apt term for my line of work. Perhaps you should bear that in mind.

Truthfully I prefer black. White gives too much of an advantage.]

After he had sent it the pulling weight of his decision seemed to cling to his shoulders. He sat, staring out of the window at the bobbing, shimmering ocean. If this goes wrong, I'm dead. If Miami goes wrong, I'm dead. And perhaps even if Miami goes right. He closed his eyes and tried to have faith in his judgment, hating that he was forced to rely on such a sketchy and amorphous philosophy such as hope.


	3. Achilles

Chapter 3

**Achilles**

"James, where are you going ?"

Light, giggling laughter followed him as he rolled over in the bed and sat up. James grabbed his phone from the nightstand at an awkward angle, bumping his watch onto the floor in the process.

"I think...," he said as he scrolled down the screen of his phone and saw the message there, hiding his unmitigated surprise behind a smile, "that we need more champagne."

Rolling back over afforded him another quick, deep kiss from sensual lips and the press of a silk covered body against his bare chest before he got out of the bed altogether. He walked backwards out of the room, watching the blonde on the bed whose name he'd forgotten half an hour ago.

"And you really need to get out of that dress," he said, smiling.

"Oh do I?" she said, biting at her finger and running her hand over her abdomen, "Then perhaps you need to try a little harder Mr. Harper."

"Well, I always do like a challenge."

Out in the main room of the villa James called for room service in order to keep up the ruse, in case the message wasn't what he expected. No need to ruin a good night after all that hard work. A name flittered absently through his mind. Was it Daphne? Or Diana? Something with a D he was sure. She'd played hard to get whoever she was but the wedding ring had come off of her finger by the time he had her through the door to his hotel room. Keeping his first name had just made it easier on him, easier to respond to without having to try. Changing his second name was just elementary.

He tapped at his phone, cycling through the passwords into his fake account, and opened his inbox. His smile was almost involuntary in its suddenness. Well fuck me, he thought, letting a sound of surprise escape as he puffed out a quick breath. A reply. He hadn't actually expected a reply from, as M seemed to like calling the man, 'that slimy bugger'.

[I do not think that 'friends' is an apt term for my line of work. Perhaps you should bear that in mind.

Truthfully I prefer black. White gives too much of an advantage.]

Standing in his rented villa on the Paradise Island coast, James Bond grinned like a schoolboy. Well this is a turn up for the books, he thought as he sat down. He wasn't quite sure what to do next, hadn't thought that far ahead if he was being honest with himself. It had been a long shot when he'd done it. The reply suggested the man was either reckless, which seemed unlikely from his profile, foolish, which seemed doubly unlikely considering his profession, or desperate, which seemed the most likely choice considering his circumstances.

James had seen the list of Le Chiffre's known associates, dominated by thick red bands and the word 'deceased'. Seems he wasn't the only one who'd picked up on the pattern. He read the message again, biting at the nail on his right thumb. It had surely come from Le Chiffre himself as a man such as him was unlikely to allow others access to his private account and, further than that, only a chess prodigy would think to turn James's own warning into a delicately barbed chess pun. So, he thought as his fingers hovered over the screen, continue dancing around the issue or head straight for the jugular? James would never say he was the most subtle of representatives when it came to MI6's finest, but this situation seemed like a little care would have to be injected were it to come to any sort of fruition. He needed a face to face meet up, as unlikely as that seemed. No other way to catch a man as elusive as to call himself 'the cipher'.

Then draw him in with something he can't resist, James thought, looking to the door as room service knocked. He mused as he let the bellboy in, tipping him handsomely once he had placed the Bollinger in its ice bucket onto the table, and then shutting the door after him. He read the message again. I prefer black. White gives too much of an advantage. A challenge, certainly. The man liked games it seemed, and it was probably safe to assume he didn't like to lose. Probably didn't lose at all, James thought, if M's profile on Le Chiffre had been accurate. Maths genius, she had said, liked games of odds and strategy so as to prove his superiority. So challenging him to a game would be a sure route to failure only...

Only Le Chiffre had replied. James smirked. That he had replied at all showed James he was not only desperate but also arrogant, probably from years of remaining neigh untouchable. Then perhaps there was a chance, however slim, that he could take this one. James looked up from typing his own reply on hearing footsteps. The woman he'd left in the bedroom stood in the doorway looking a little put out.

"Do you ever plan on coming back to finish what you started?" she asked, hand on hip and silk dress deliciously rumpled; James momentarily lost his train of thought as he studied the delineated curves of her body through the clinging material.

"Mmm," he said, sending the message before logging out of his account and smiling, "sorry. Something's come up."

"What?" she said, looking taken aback and angry all at once.

"Have to run," he said, buttoning his shirt as he walked to the door, "you'll need to finish yourself off."

He was gone before she could begin shouting at him, the sent message resting in his outbox.

[Oh good, then as white I go first.

P–K4]

* * *

He had expected it to take far longer than the hour that it did for the reply to come through. Was it deliberation or work that had kept the man from replying? James wondered. He sat in his rented Ford along the street from Dimitrios' house and read it as he continued in vain to try getting a signal from the bug he'd put on the man's phone.

[P–K4

I assume there is some sort of forfeit?]

Great minds thought alike, James thought amusedly, even from opposite sides of the track it seemed. He wasn't getting anywhere here anyway, Dimitiros must have had a jammer set up in his house. It had been worth a try but he hadn't expected it to be that easy. James started the engine and pulled out into the road, heading back to the Ocean Club.

[What makes you think I want anything but the game?

N–KB3]

Mere minutes this time before the chime sounded. James felt a flush of victory. The fish was hooked.

[Quid pro quo. Everyone wants something.

N–QB3]

Smart man, James thought, if somewhat paranoid. I suppose I would be too in his position if that many people wanted me dead. He decided to let Le Chiffre sweat a while and postponed his reply. Let it prey on the man's mind. James wondered what the man's involvement with Ellipsis was. Surely something incredibly illegal, as well as nice and separate from the proceedings. Le Chiffre didn't seem the sort to get his hands dirty. Still, it was nice to have at least a little power over someone who thought they could get away with murder; probably literally too. For a moment James imagined M's face when he had to tell her how he'd drawn Le Chiffre in. Just what shade of purple would it go? He wondered.

After a nice, chill vodka and orange on the promenade James thought his next move through. The only way to play a bigger fish, he thought as he typed, was with a good lure. He just hoped that Le Chiffre would be too distracted to notice his ploy.

[B–QB4

A meeting. Your terms?]

He could almost feel the hesitation in his opponent as the minutes ticked by. James moved into the restaurant and ordered himself clam chowder with a side of fresh bread. He ignored the dirty looks he received when his phone went off in the middle of the luncheon service.

[Very tenacious. Or perhaps simply idiotic.

N–KB3

As for terms I already have your location. Your name would be only polite.]

Then he suspected? No, James was sure that if he knew who he was engaged in a battle of wits with then Le Chiffre would never have replied in the first place. Perhaps he was simply too conceited to believe someone outwith his circle of associates could track down his personal contact details. James took a mouthful of his dinner and patted himself on the back.

[Excellent, if you know where I am then you'll know where to come once we're done.

P–Q4]

* * *

It had worked. It had bloody well worked. As James read his opponent's next move, B–QB5, he knew it was all over. Either he was a damned poor chess prodigy or James had been right and the man had been thrown off his game by distraction and paranoia. Once he sent his counterattack, R–K1, James was awarded with no forthcoming reply. For a full twenty minutes, a long time respective to the mere minute's delay between previous replies, there was silence. James watched the water sparkle in the lengthening sunlight and gave it another five minutes just to be sure. He checked his phone. Nothing. He smiled as he typed.

[I'll be in the Courtyard Terrace at seven.]

James decided to take a swim as the water was still warm. He gave broad, powerful strokes to take him forty feet from the shore, the water cooling the further out he swam. It lapped pleasantly around his shoulders as he treaded water, looking back at the shore and pushing his wet hair back from his forehead.

Would he come? He thought. Admittedly this small dalliance into the more difficult route, as James liked to call anything that didn't involve simply putting a bullet between someone's eyes, could just be ignored by his opponent. Le Chiffre had no bargain to honour and, as a 'slimy bugger', James was sure that Le Chiffre only honoured bargains when it was of some advantage for him to do so. Of course the offer he'd given in his first message, the lure, the hook, Perhaps you should think about getting some new ones, was hopefully enough. Considering how few 'friends' Le Chiffre had left, all of which he probably suspected of betraying him, James liked his odds.

* * *

"Table for one, sir?" the immaculately dressed maître d' asked.

"For two," James corrected him, "I'm expecting someone."

"Of course, sir," the man smiled decorously, picking up two menus and leading the way through the fairly busy terrace restaurant.

The air was sweetly warm, perfumed by planters filled with exotic flowers and natural sea salt spray from the ocean. The palm trees shivered as a soft breeze filtered in. He was seated at a table next to the low, inlaid cerulean pool at the centre of the restaurant, beneath the white canopies stained gold by the discreet lighting. The small fountain rustled pleasantly behind him.

He would have suggested the Martinique, more formal, more suited he was sure to his guest's tastes, only this suited him better. Nice view, nice and open while also being enclosed; make it difficult for the snipers he thought, even though he was sure there would be none. If he did show then Le Chiffre would be arriving alone, he would bet on it. No one in his position would allow himself to be observed as beaten by their cronies.

"Thank you," he said as he took the menu, opening it and relaxing down into the chair.

Nice, he thought, very nice indeed. It wasn't often he could count himself as almost on holiday. This was perhaps the closest he'd come in about, say four years. And that had been in the middle of a crisis, to put it mildly. Five days pretending to be dead wasn't what most people would consider a holiday but James would take what he could get.

A casually raised hand called a waiter to him.

"The Domaine Leflaive," he said, handing over the wine menu; the waiter nodded and left without a word.

Only two hundred and twenty dollars a bottle, he thought with a smile. Might as well splash out, considering it wasn't his tab to pick up. He continued flicking through the menu while his mind was elsewhere. He wasn't really hungry, the heat tended to drastically lower his appetite, but he would find something for the sake of pretence. When he heard footsteps approach he assumed it was the waiter returning with his wine. Instead he looked up to find someone sitting down in the chair opposite him dressed rather overdramatically he thought, considering the pastel and bright colours of the other diners, in an expensive suit cut in different shades of black and dark grey.

"I wouldn't recommend the lobster," James said facetiously, placing his open menu down on the table and unashamedly staring at the man across from him whose eyes were now trained on his own menu as if it were nothing out of the ordinary.

"Oh?" the man said, not looking up.

"Mmm," James continued, "saw them on the way in, looked quite worried, like they didn't know which one was next for the pot. I've heard it makes the taste rather bitter."

Finally mismatched eyes deigned to look up from the menu and regard him. The look he was given could have cut glass. James kept his slight smile and his partly casual slouch into his chair in place. Le Chiffre looked far different out of the green and white photograph in the MI6 computerised dossiers and into the real world. The pallor of his skin seemed less pronounced, even if still highlighted quite heavily by his choice of wardrobe. Everything appeared immaculate, from hair to clothes to well manicured fingernails. Even his damaged, milky left eye, with an only barely discernible pupil and iris, still seemed to stare into him.

The waiter arrived with the wine, about to pour into James's glass before Le Chiffre put his own forwards without a word, still studying his menu. The waiter hesitated before pouring a swill into the offered glass. It was picked up with an elegant hand and tasted. James didn't miss the blackening bruise barely hidden beneath Le Chiffre's shirt cuff as he sipped the deep yellow wine, or the unimpressed twist to his lips as he swallowed.

"No," he said definitively to the waiter, "Is this the Leflaive?"

"Yes, sir."

"Bring a bottle of the Jacques Prieur," he said without hesitation, "and take this away."

The bottle and the used wine glass were removed post haste. James wondered if the man was trying to impose his own dominance on a situation he had no real control over, or if it was just natural for him to begin changing everything to the way he liked it as soon as he had the chance. James chose both.

"Well, I do hope you're footing the bill," James said, closing his menu after randomly choosing something that sounded half way decent, "I think that eight hundred dollars for wine might be a little outwith my price bracket."

"Then MI6 pays as well as I thought," Le Chiffre said, making James's casual pose waver, "or are you simply frugal Mr Bond?"

He must have let his surprise slip into more than just his pose as Le Chiffre's, now that he looked at them, rather attractively full lips slid into an irritating subtle smile. He did not ask but his 'opponent' obviously decided to tell him anyway. James got the feeling that Le Chiffre was the sort of man who revelled in telling people his workings.

"Actually, out of all my options, it was an educated guess," Le Chiffre said, "besides your pronounced Cambridge accent, the callus at your knuckle of your middle finger and your patented government superciliousness, this is an absurdly British time to suggest for dinner."

Against his better judgement, James laughed. It was short and fast but seemed to, at the very least, wipe the smile from Le Chiffre's face. He was glad for that. The man's smugness had been starting to wear on him. James guessed that Le Chiffre was used to intimidating nearly everyone that he met and was obviously not used to what James thought he would probably regard as insolence, or some such other thing.

"Well, I can't feel the laser sights on the back of my neck just yet, so I'm guessing you're here for something other than just dinner. Or assassination."

"Call it curiosity."

Le Chiffre fell silent as the waiter returned. He tasted and approved the wine before they both placed their orders. James thought his lamb and berlotti bean cannelloni sounded rather sparse written next to Le Chiffre's grilled sea bass with salsa verde and summer vegetables en papillote. Still, he tried to amuse himself, at least this puts a positive spin on things. He was desperate enough to turn up even knowing who might be sitting at the dinner table.

"I'd rather call it something else," James said as they were once more alone.

"Dare I ask?"

A hint of a slight rasp on the man's sibilants; Swedish perhaps, maybe Danish. M had said Albanian but James was beginning to wonder if that was true, or if perhaps the man had been raised elsewhere. It was arbitrary now, he thought as he planned his next move.

"Anxiety," he suggested.

"I do believe you are treading a very fine line, Mr Bond," Le Chiffre said with a slight tightness to his tone.

"I try my best," James said, "especially when there's so much on said line."

"Such as?" Le Chiffre feigned boredom.

"Ellipsis."

An instantaneous reaction. Le Chiffre was seemingly unable to stop the twitch at his left eye; two fingers were automatically placed against the traitorous skin, rubbing lightly.

"Well, that does sound important," Le Chiffre looked murderous but, beneath that, James was glad to see a spike of well hidden fear, "I do hope you are not expecting me to recognise it."

"Oh, too late for that," James said with a cheerful smile, hoping his bluff worked, "and I do hope that you're not underestimating me now. Or have you already forgotten our little game?"

A sour twist to Le Chiffre's lips, followed by a swallow as if he had just eaten something bitter and wanted rid of the taste. James hoped that the sting of defeat mixed with the man's obvious fear and egotism would keep the conversation away from the fact that James had absolutely no idea what Ellipsis meant at all. As he watched a tongue darted out to wet dry lips. James allowed his smile to stay put.

"If there is a proposal you wish to give to me, Mr Bond, I would rather you spat it out and not dance around the issue," Le Chiffre said curtly.

"We can offer you protection," James said casually, knowing when it was time to play his cards, "in exchange for information."

"No," Le Chiffre said with the same infuriating superiority with which he had dismissed the wine.

"Oh," James said, shrugging, "well, I guess I'll just leave you for the dogs then. You can show yourself out."

A con was always difficult to pull off when dealing with someone who was just as manipulative as you were, if not more so, and highly intelligent to boot. Thankfully, James knew from the chess game they had played and Le Chiffre's growing unease, as well as the host of other tells he'd given away, that the man was hanging on by a thread. James thanked his lucky stars that he'd judged the situation correctly or he'd be risking a knife in his back any minute. Le Chiffre brought his fingers to his eye once more, smoothing away the twitch while his thumb traced his lips. Something was muttered, barely caught, perhaps 'bir kurve', before the hand was returned to the table.

"I do not think that you can offer me the sort of protection that I need," Le Chiffre said with a surprising honesty; James was almost taken aback by the momentary look of dread in the other man's eyes. Then it was gone, disappearing once more behind perfect shutters.

"I do believe you're underestimating me again," James said.

"I think it prudent to base my wellbeing on facts rather than supposition."

"You want proof?"

"You catch on quick," Le Chiffre said, stare locked with James's own.

What was it he had said? Quid pro quo. It seemed the phrase stuck like horse glue and stank just as much. He had hoped to get this in the bag before reporting in. M would be so much more agreeable to the plan if he already had something, or someone, to show for it. Le Chiffre preferably, and his wealth of information on terrorist and criminal networks, and dominion over their funds. Still, he had chosen the difficult route after all. He was starting to wonder if a bullet between those smug eyes, even clouded in fear, would be a better option. No, he thought with a smile, M would definitely kill him for that one.

"Alright," he nodded as their dinner arrived, "what do you need?"

"I have a problem," Le Chiffre said as he shook out his napkin and placed it in his lap.

"Oh?" James said, finding that he was hungry now that he could smell food.

"Someone in my close personal circle has been hired to kill me," he said candidly once the waiter had gone, "I want him found and delivered to me, with proof."

"Sounds like a bit of a tall order," James said, unimpressed.

"So does your offer, Mr Bond," Le Chiffre pointed out.

"Touché."

"Find them and I will concede to your boss's offer," Le Chiffre said as if he were having to force the words from his mouth.

"Why do you think it was my boss that offered?" James asked.

"I always assume that the blunt instruments do not make their own decisions," Le Chiffre said, "and also the fact that you have not yet killed me even though you appear to want to, quite badly, suggests you were ordered to take me alive. I hope this will not sour our relationship."

"Heaven forbid," James said acidly; he disliked being read like an open book, especially when he was trying his very best to keep his poker face up like a shield. He would have to watch himself. Le Chiffre was obviously far more observant than was healthy.

"Good," Le Chiffre said, taking a forkful of fish and vegetables and chewing with a satisfied look on his face, "then you have three days, after which I believe I will be of no use to you."

"And why is that?" James asked, starting on his own food.

"Because I will be dead," Le Chiffre said matter-of-factly.

They ate in silence, James wondering how he had managed to pull this off as he surreptitiously watched one of the most dangerous men in the world eat fish across the table from him. Some days, he thought, things just went right for him. He hoped it would stay that way until the end of the week at least.

* * *

AN: The game that James and Le Chiffre are playing is a famous set known as 'The Skewer Lure', Andrews vs Jassens in 1864. It really is a beautiful little game and, if you like chess, you should look it up and watch the whole thing recreated. The move Bond plays to win the game, a queen bait (with two more moves which I omitted to force a checkmate), is just wonderful.

Also 'bir kurve' is Albanian for 'Son of a bitch'. I just enjoy the idea of Le Chiffre swearing. The man has too much composure for my liking.


	4. Paris

Chapter 4

**Paris**

Two days later and Le Chiffre sat, black espresso in one hand and the other to his mouth, looking at the limp figure of Leo slumped unconscious on a rickety wooden chair before him. He took a drink, enjoying the bitter flavour and jolt of caffeine in his flagging system. It seemed, he thought with a broad smile, that if you gave James Bond an ultimatum the man was incredibly efficient. I should have thought of hiring someone more suited to the job months ago, he thought as he let out a soft laugh to match his vicious smile.

Manipulating government employees who hid behind a veneer of morality always put him in a good mood. Men like Bond enjoyed feeling right; it allowed them a semblance of normalcy which, without, they would be nothing but ruthless killers. Le Chiffre recognised in Bond something which he had once been himself: a blunt instrument with blood on his hands scrabbling for a sense of justice. Only Le Chiffre had shed that ambition years ago. Now there was a considerable rift, he thought, between himself and Mr Bond.

Still, he had been useful for something at least.

Also it seemed Le Chiffre himself was not as suited to the world of espionage as some, considering it had taken Bond two days to do what he could not in over a month. However, the sting of being outdone was far overweighed by the end result. His 'present' was coming round, blinking groggily.

_This_ was the part he excelled at, he thought as he stood up, placed his half drunk coffee down carefully on a crate and pulled the rope from his bag.

* * *

The third day rolled around quicker than he would have thought. He watched the daylight rise through one of the high windows in the abandoned warehouse, automatically reaching for his inhaler as he coughed, wheezing slightly. He stopped on realising that his right hand was still coated in a sticky layer of blood. Le Chiffre grimaced and pulled out his handkerchief from his trouser pocket with his left hand, rubbing at the mess.

So much worse, it had turned out to be so much worse than he had imagined. Le Chiffre swallowed, turning to walk towards the small bag he had brought with him, past Leo's naked, bloody corpse still tied to its chair, and rummaged for the bottle of disinfectant. He washed his hands and then rinsed them with a water bottle. Once he was done he took a shot from his inhaler, changed out of his clothes and into a fresh set and a pair of gloves. He put the soiled ones, along with the bag and its contents, into an empty bin and set the whole affair ablaze. Leo was next, the gasoline stinging at his nose as he poured. Still, getting rid of the evidence didn't wipe away the proof Bond had delivered him. If only it could, he thought.

"_Oh god, oh _god _please! No! No ah..!" the sentence slid into an inarticulate howl as Le Chiffre swung the rope hard, connecting with a telling thump._

_There wasn't much left of the man, if Le Chiffre was to be honest with himself. Of all the inventive ways which he had devised over the years with which to pry information from people, he found that prolonged and agonising pain was the most effective. For men, an easy and humiliating torture was simple. Some put up a fight, held out for rescue, mercy, whatever else hope could bring them, but nearly everyone crumbled. Pain and fear were the basest of instincts. It was difficult to override something that you were programmed form birth to escape at all costs._

_He dropped the rope to the ground, running a hand over his forehead to wipe away the sweat. It was hot in the warehouse, like a brick oven. He wished Leo wouldn't be so very obstinate. It was ruining his complexion._

_He reached down to pick up the long dagger from his chair. The look in Leo's eyes was blank, stained with resignation, sweat and crusted blood. Of the multiple bruises, cuts and welts on the man's prone form, none were fatal. Le Chiffre decided to push for a more direct agony, hoping to break through the last of the man's 'hope'._

"_Then perhaps you should consider spilling your guts, as they say," Le Chiffre said as he walked in front of Leo, sat shaking and trembling, and played with the knife in his hands, "or I could do that for you? Perhaps I should let you do it yourself. Traitors are supposed to take their own lives, aren't they? But then maybe you were never loyal in the first place. Or not to me, anyway."_

_Leo didn't talk, just shook his head nervously and tried to stop his face breaking into spasms of weeping and realisations of horror at his situation. Le Chiffre's smile did not reach his eyes as he walked forwards the last few steps to place himself flush against Leo's side. He could feel the sweat from the man's arms and chest soaking into his trousers. Le Chiffre rested the sharp edge of the knife against Leo's shoulder, tracing the sweat beaded skin there._

"_A name, how much you were paid and _why_," Le Chiffre said for the third time that night, "and maybe there will be enough of you left to save. The longer you make me wait, Leo, the less there will be."_

"_I don't...I don't..." Leo huffed out harshly, head shaking violently, unable to tear his eyes from the knife; Le Chiffre let his smile drop and pushed violently with the knife against the soft skin, sinking the dagger in half way until he felt it scrape against bone._

_The scream of agony had been abrasive but what came next even more so, "Haines! Ah, _ah _it was Haines!"_

_Le Chiffre twisted the knife half to spill more information from Leo's lips and half from involuntary fear. Another scream and useless squirming as blood began to flow from the ground open wound, laying bare muscle and fatty tissue from beneath the skin._

"_He...he...he," Leo puffed out in breaths, his eyes wide, "didn't pay me. I didn't meet him...it was White, he came and said Haines...he wants you dead. Said..." a choking sob and Leo began to cry in earnest, his face twisted with grief and choking sobs of agony, "...he said he knows what you've been doing. That...that money wasn't as important as knowing who to trust."_

He would give Leo this, Le Chiffre thought as he walked along the Miami promenade towards the harbour, it had taken eighteen solid hours to break him. It was plainly obvious that Leo was terrified of whomever he was going to reveal and, on hearing the name from blood stained lips, Le Chiffre couldn't blame him. He assumed that, at some point, Leo had realised Le Chiffre was going to kill him regardless and had only given the name up when he had understood that he was already dead. There was only one Haines he knew of powerful enough to cause this much dread while inspiring that much loyalty. Mr White may have been a lapdog of Quantum, but Guy Haines was an alpha.

Le Chiffre stumbled over a crack in the pavement as he walked. His exhaustion made the recovery all the harder, forcing him to reach out and steady himself against a nearby wall. This was a mess, such a large, fractured mess. If Haines was the master behind the puppet strings being pulled then MI6 would be no saviour to him. Not with the British Prime Minister's private advisor being the source of his assassination order.

He did not want to go back to the yacht. The feeling was sudden and visceral. A rising panic that had him hauling out his inhaler again. He hadn't suspected Leo any more than he had suspected everyone else. So which of the others were watching and waiting? Waiting for him to let his guard down? The propellant left a bitter taste in his mouth as he hauled the misted spray down into his lungs. He swallowed. Fuck, he thought suddenly, _fuck_.

Nowhere to run.

_There's always a way out_.

Le Chiffre ran his hand over his face, smelling the twang of disinfectant on his fingers and the barest hint of gasoline. One thing that hadn't added up, as far as he was concerned, was why he was still alive _now_. If Haines and White wanted him silenced then a sniper's bullet or an assassin's knife would do the job. Leo had been their mole within his private world, separate, or so he had thought, from Quantum's expectations. What had Leo been waiting for? Ellipsis? But the man had said money was not their concern, which Le Chiffre could believe. Quantum was not exactly short on money, that much he knew from his own private investigations. Perhaps, he thought, some of the reason he was being targeted was because of how much he knew. Le Chiffre cursed under his breath, wishing he'd had the foresight to keep his eyes where they needed to be and away from where they were not wanted.

_He said he knows what you've been doing_. The blood pumping in his veins drew colder from his heart. He closed his eyes.

So where now?

A tongue darted out to wet his lips. He would have to keep up appearances or risk raising suspicion. There was no point in taking the chance to spoil the fact that the only thing keeping him alive right now was that he was obviously destined for something he did not know about. Not yet. Until then he was living on borrowed time. He would return to the yacht and give Dimitrios the go ahead. A plan was beginning to form in his mind, one with a slim but hopeful chance of leaving him breathing at the end of it.

But first, he needed to lay the groundwork.

* * *

He found Bond's villa without too much trouble. The man hadn't made much of an effort to hide himself, although Le Chiffre would allow for the fact that he probably wouldn't have needed to if he hadn't made himself so visible to Le Chiffre in the first place.

The main living room was pleasantly cool. Le Chiffre took a moment to inspect the rooms, finding nothing useful, and then realised he was doing the one thing that had put him in this mess in the first place: snooping. You always have to know everything, don't you? he asked himself. Before he would have thought of it as contingency; now it seemed more like prying-with-consequences.

Still, the lack of evidence did not count for nothing. There was a telling placement of shoes by the side of the bed. Smartly together and tongues turned out. The bed itself was turned down immaculately but not in hotel fashion but a rigid, military style. The watch and the book on the dresser were immaculately straight with the counter edge. In the small kitchen a bottle of water and an apple had been laid out as if in preparation for being eaten. Typical boarding school behaviour, Le Chiffre thought. He should know, it had taken long years to drum the familiar behaviour out of himself after all.

He sat for twenty minutes by the window, staring out at the water, before the panic began to slip back in. He was being given too much time to worry. The adrenaline from earlier was beginning to seep back into his blood, he could feel it in the thump of his heartbeat against his breastbone. The shake in his hands as he reached for the water he'd poured himself.

Fuck it, he thought arrogantly.

He took a shower while he waited, if only to rid himself of any vestiges of dirt, blood, the smell of disinfectant and the growing panic. The towel was clean and soft against his skin, unused. As he dressed in Bond's bedroom he wondered if the man had even been there at all since last night. The bed appeared undisturbed. It was as he buttoned his shirt that the press of cold hard metal appeared at the nape of his neck. Le Chiffre smiled without humour.

"Enjoying ourselves, are we?"

Bond's tone was hard even with the relaxed lilt; somehow this animosity and sheer improbability of their combined situation made Le Chiffre feel absurdly safe and in control.

"Quite," Le Chiffre said.

As he turned he allowed the muzzle of the gun to trail his throat until it sat against his jugular. Bond's eyes held none of the conceited playfulness from their dinner the day before. Cold and steel-like, they watched him dispassionately.

"You smell like a bloody cleaner," Bond said, stepping back a little but not lowering his gun, "I'm guessing your man didn't survive the encounter?"

"Does that bother you, Mr Bond?" Le Chiffre asked, buttoning up the last of his shirt.

"Do I look like I care if one scumbag offs another scumbag?" Bond said dryly, "What I'm more concerned with is why you're in my bedroom."

Le Chiffre smiled with teeth, looking down at his feet. He sat down on the bed behind him and clasped his hands together. One scumbag, hmm? He thought. How eloquent. Le Chiffre was sure Bond had no idea what he had muscled his way into, or just how much he had made himself as big a target now as Le Chiffre was. He was unable to stop the laughter from escaping his throat, slightly hysterical.

"It seems that I have miscalculated," he said.

"As pleasant as it is to hear you've screwed yourself," Bond said, "that's not an explanation. If you're seen here there won't be much of a point to our little deal, will there. I'm pretty sure that you've miscalculated before and didn't feel the need to run and tell me about it."

"Miscalculated before?" Le Chiffre had only been half listening, already calculating whether or not this would sink him completely, "Our game you mean? How naive of you to think that I did not throw you a bone there."

"What?" Bond frowned, "Look, I don't need you to..."

"You must have thought me a proper little fool," Le Chiffre said, laughing again, "losing to such a simple ploy. I wanted to give you a chance, at least, or perhaps give myself a chance. Whichever."

"Will you shut..."

"You do not know what Ellipsis is," Le Chiffre said, quieting the man into a sullen, fuming silence, gun still aimed, "just as you seem to have only a moderate grasp of chess."

"_Moderate_," Bond snapped, making Le Chiffre's shark smile widen.

"I could have taken you any way I wanted, Mr Bond," Le Chiffre said, musing on all of the counter plays he could have used to decimate his opponent in their ephemeral game, "I still could."

Instead he had sacrificed his king and a small part of his dignity in order to set up a meeting where his opponent would think themselves safely superior. So far it was all working out far better than if he had just ploughed on alone. He looked at Bond, watching him angrily. The adrenaline still rushing through his system was giving him odd ideas about where he was and how much he could risk.

The gun did not waver but Bond's eyes narrowed.

"No thanks," Bond said acidly, "you're not my type."

Well, he hadn't intended to take it anywhere near _there_. Sleeping with the enemy; very dangerous territory indeed. Even if it was usually very pleasurable, dangerous territory. Although he found it interesting that Bond's first instincts seemed to have steered him towards innuendo. Le Chiffre smiled.

"Not your type," he repeated, "Male?"

"Single," Bond said the word as if it were distasteful and the gun was holstered.

"Just goes to show how much you know about me," Le Chiffre tilted his head and Bond narrowed his eyes.

"We had a deal," he said, steering away from the odd tangent they had taken.

"I'm changing the deal."

"That's not how deals work," Bond said tightly.

"It is when there is suddenly more on the table than the original bargain."

"Thought you'd managed to weasel your way out of assassination."

"Actually I was thinking less of my sudden demise and more of what I am now able to offer you. I suggest you get your boss on the phone, Mr Bond. Tell her that there's a bomb set to go off in Miami airport tonight, seven o clock eastern standard time, but that it will be diffused in the way I deem necessary," he watched Bond's face tighten and his muscles bunch, "and that I have a new chip to play which may interest her more than the futile, uninteresting terrorist attacks with which M16 must engage on a daily basis."

"And I'm supposed to just go along with it," Bond said as if he were talking to himself, shaking his head, "why are you even telling me all this? Fit of conscience from a near death experience? Don't feel hurt, but I'm disinclined to trust your motives."

"Oh, my motives are very much understandable," Le Chiffre said, pushing his wet hair back as it fell onto his forehead, "unlike you appear to wish me, I very much enjoy being alive. If the only way to remain so is to bring down those who want to kill me, then so be it. So, the phone Mr Bond."

He sat on the bed and listened as Bond called 'home' in the next room. Even laughed when he realised the man was being reprimanded, talking over someone loudly. Things were falling apart so quickly that it was difficult to keep up with shuffling away the rubble. Le Chiffre stood up, tucked in his shirt and made himself presentable.

No reason not to face Quantum with style, after all.

* * *

"Someone talked."

He felt his eye twitch in sympathy with his lie and hoped that it came across as a suitable 'show' of his anxiety as he stood and watched the news reporters at Miami International Airport. The 'anxiety' he would have been feeling had the foiling of the Skyfleet bomb been a surprise and not to the very precarious plan he had developed in the past five hours. That it was falling into place, however unstable, seemed more miraculous than down to his immaculate skills.

"Do you need me to contact anyone?" Kratt asked him discreetly.

That his right hand was actually _asking_ was more telling than what he asked. Kratt knew his place; to speak when spoken to. I really must look dire, Le Chiffre thought.

"Get me Bradleys," he said, "there might be time to salvage this."

There wouldn't be. He already knew there wouldn't be. He was betting on the fact that there wouldn't be. Yet he accepted the phone regardless, to keep up the ruse.

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure yet how much you've lost," his stock broker said with muted sympathy.

A lot and he told him so in exact figures. Yet perhaps stood to gain more than that in return, or would, if this all went through. Le Chiffre sucked in the bitter tang of his inhaler and wondered how much a life was worth in monetary value.

His own was priceless to himself. How much was it worth to others?

"_You evacuate and call in the threat and you'll get nothing."_

_The Boss with which he was making his deal wasn't quite what he had expected. M, as they appeared to be known, was filtered through a voice changer that made him feel as if he were having a conversation with a dalek. He was tempted to tell the woman that the ruse was unnecessary considering he knew exactly what she looked and sounded like, but felt it would be prudent to continue allowing MI6 to feel as if it had the upper hand. _

"_What you offer seems unlikely. You should know that," M said._

"_It is an unlikely situation I have found myself in."_

"_You know this could all be solved quite simply by arresting you. I find interrogation works wonders on informants."_

"_Or it would, if you had anything to hold me on."_

"_Precise details about a terrorist attack should be enough."_

"_I called in a bomb threat. I'm nothing more than a concerned citizen. Besides, if you arrest me now you'll get nothing more than a pawn," Le Chiffre hated to refer to himself as such but had decided being candid was the way forward for now, "what I can offer you sits upon the back ranks."_

_A moment's hesitation, just long enough that he knew he was understood and his offer was being considered. Then..._

"_Go on."_

_It was what he loved about the British. Such a practical people, despite their almost overwhelming pride and arrogance._

"_I'm sure you have the ingenuity to make it look like you figured this all out for yourself. Once the attack fails, believe me you'll have the eyes of people whom you will likely find very interesting focused on me."_

"_You're offering yourself as bait," even the computerised voice sounded unconvinced._

"_I'm already bait," Le Chiffre smiled, knowing no one but Bond would be able to see it anyway, "I'm offering myself as bigger bait. If everything goes according to plan, or should that be when everything falls apart, I can bring about a situation that will be most lucrative for us both. All I need is some protection. Then, once all is said and done...I suppose I will be at your disposal."_

Thought it was unlikely that it would ever come to that, he thought as he stood by the window, staring out over the wine dark sea. He refused to make his indefinite incarceration by the British government part of his long term plans. If they believed he would sell himself from one slavery to another, they were quite mistaken.

He clung to the tenant by which he lived his life as a drowning man would a shard of flotsam: _there was always a way out_.


	5. Menelaus

**AN:** There is a conversation between Le Chiffre and another in this chapter that's in Serbian. Only a few lines, but just to let you know the translation is at the end of the chapter.

**Chapter 5**

**Menlaus**

Sometimes he looked at it. Found himself sitting idle and his hands would wander to his laptop, keying into his utterly secure, and yet pointlessly so, Cimbanque account, linking him directly to Bekb BCBE in Bern. Most of the time he did not. Staring at the minus sign lying rather innocuously before the rather large set of numbers in his account only served as a reminder.

Or a warning. A minus sign could mean so many things; a lack of, a dearth. Or a subtraction. He would close the laptop with a snap and let it drop onto the couch beside him, ignoring the sway of the cabin. He would pour himself another glass of brandy and he would drink it quickly.

The cabin itself afforded every luxury; recessed queen sized bed, foldaway table for private dining with couch and armchair, en suite, private porter and drinks on tap whenever he asked. His name, it seemed, still sung high praises even if his account merely spat red ink. It had been easy to fudge it in the end. Much less dangerous to fly into Serbia and take the train to Podgorica than to fly straight to the capital. Too many people watching the easy ways in. Taking the sleeper train was the best he could do in a tight spot, only hoping that his enemies wouldn't take it as a first choice.

He'd sent the others with the yacht. The last thing he wanted to do was alert Valenka to the danger. He knew she'd already been suspicious of their separate travel arrangements, even though it was not out of the ordinary. Leo was 'missing', and he had barely spoken to her before flying to Belgrade. He just hoped she was clever enough to keep her mouth shut and stay calm until they met up at the hotel in the capital.

By the time they reached Užice it was dark and he was rather drunk. A small train station, nothing fancy. They did not stop. Just barrelled through past the dim lights, back into the swallowing darkness. He wished he could look out and see the mountains, they would be snow-capped at this time of year, but the night was too complete.

Now he found himself standing before the window, looking out at nothing and trying to think of just as much. Only he could not stare out, for the windows were black with the darkness outside and all that stared back at him was his own reflection. Shirt undone to the collarbone, hair dishevelled, cuffs rolled up, eyes half lidded. Le Chiffre rubbed at his nose with his wrist before taking another sip of brandy, letting the fumes perfume his nostrils.

A mess, he thought derisively, look at you, _you're a mess_. He felt the absurd need to laugh. Just the drink, he thought, I shouldn't have kept the bottle. The porter hadn't even questioned him when, instead of taking the offered glass, Le Chiffre had simply taken the entire tray from his hands, bottle and all, before tipping the man with a handsome, green one hundred euro note stuffed into his collar.

After the first two glasses he had begun to wonder why he hadn't simply pulled the young man in along with the tray to complete the package; he had been attractive enough, and he had not been blind to the blush or the small smile on his face before the door was shut on it. Would have passed the time a little more inventively than simply getting himself blind drunk. He laughed into his glass, a little half-heartedly, a little giddily.

It was going to work, wasn't it. Wasn't it? He was fed up questioning himself and yet the question continued to roll around. It would work. He'd done it before, well not quite under the same circumstances. Not under threat of certain death if he lost and uncertain but possible death even if he succeeded. Not that he was worried about the game, no. Poker was his specialty and he wouldn't doubt himself on that. He never doubted odds and numbers and ratios because they were reliable and easy to deal with. They did not betray you, they could not be bribed, they did not change their minds or have fits of conscience.

People did. People could almost always be relied upon to be unpredictable and useless. Thorns where there should be silk, acid where there should be champagne, a knife where there should be a gentle hand. He'd done all that before too, he thought vaguely as he contemplated the suddenly empty bottom of his brandy snifter.

People; that was why he hated people. Complicated people. Who needed them. Would be so much fucking easier if he could just...just sit up in a high tower somewhere and look down. Yes, look down on everyone from above while they walked and talked and killed and lusted. Unaware they were even being observed. Yes, something like that would suit him, he thought. He laughed into his glass once more as he leaned his bottom lip against the rim, inhaling the residue. When the cabin swayed again he found himself stumbling slightly to stay upright.

The knock at the door made him freeze before he started for the gun he had stashed in the cabinet by the bed. He paused when the knock came again, accompanied by the porter's voice. He licked his lower lip and let out a soft sigh, closing his eyes. _Relax_ for god's sakes. You'd think this was the first time someone had wanted you dead.

And yet it was almost as bad as the first time, or perhaps worse. This feeling. The first time someone had tried to kill him it was with his own knife, knocked from his own hands. Enver Asllani had never done more than beat him during any chance alone encounter, in the cloak room, the changing rooms for the large, cold gym. Even once or twice out in the forests surrounding the boarding school when they'd been on field trips. Le Chiffre knew he'd only had himself to blame for bringing the knife to school as defence, one which was quickly turned to offence when he found it pushed against his own throat.

Remembered the struggle, the grunting, huffed breaths. The jeers of the other two boys Enver always kept close, quiet and low to avoid attention, but fitful with aggression. Remembered the feeling of rolling in the mud with arms tight around his torso, wheezing like a pathetic pig, gasping for air that his asthmatic lungs could not draw in. Remembered the short, sharp sting across his left eye and the feeling of wet heat against his cheek.

When he answered the door to the porter Le Chiffre was not in a fit state of mind to deal with people. He stared at the young man as if seeing through the blood he was sure was on dripping into his eye, slipping down his face. Should be slipping down his face, dripping from his chin.

Dear fucking god I need a distraction, he thought wearily.

"Cep, Ја сам дошао да наплати боцу," the porter began, his Serbian giving his young voice a unique huskiness, "јеси ли добро..?"

Le Chiffre reached up to run an unsteady hand across the young man's right cheek. The flutter of eyelashes, which preceded the frown on the young man's face, barely registered before Le Chiffre grabbed him by the front of his immaculate uniform and hauled him inside. The door was pulled clumsily shut as he crushed his mouth with sensuous slowness against the younger man's lips, hearing a muffled sound of either surprise or protest as he pushed him against the wall.

Pulling back, Le Chiffre looked into his pale blue eyes, focusing as best he could through the pleasant haze of alcohol and adrenaline. He leaned in on his forearm, placed by the man's head, crowding him against the wall.

"Ho?" he asked, reaching up to unclip the first button on his uniform.

"Ja... не треба," came the only protest he would be given, as Le Chiffre continued to lower his hands and pop buttons.

It was as simple as dropping his hand to the front of the man's trousers and squeezing gently. Closed eyes and a gasp allowed him to lean in and claim soft lips, sliding his tongue gently across another's. Hands hesitated at his elbows before sliding up and around his back.

The bottle sat forgotten on the table.

* * *

He would have liked to say it was the early morning sun that woke him, but he knew it wasn't. The fear, mixed with a healthy dose of paranoia, had kept his sleep light. Even after the previous evening's rather interesting diversion, he had not fallen into as deep a sleep as he had hoped. Too many nightmares plaguing him; waking him up sweat soaked and gasping, eyes straining in the pitch before rolling him over and back into fitful sleep.

He had spent the early morning in his cabin sobering his hangover with coffee and salted, boiled eggs which he had ordered from the kitchens specially the night before. They tasted wonderful and helped chase away his headache in conjunction with the paracetamol and the large glass of iced tonic water.

A brief and very odd thought wondered into his head as he stared at the rolling, vineyard dotted hills of Crkvine rushing by: was Bond awake? It had been an arbitrary thought mainly because he wanted it to be. He _wasn't_ thinking it because he wondered if anyone else was as worried about his insane plan as he was. He _wasn't_ thinking that the last time he had spoken to Bond the man had seemed to be contemplating a myriad of different ways to dismember and hide his corpse. He _wasn't_ thinking that the man was practically the only ally he had on this venture who was aware of the details. It was merely arbitrary.

Yes, arbitrary. He drank his black coffee and sat back in the wide armchair by the bed, the small table folded up before him.

Vindictively he hoped Bond had experienced nothing less than a terrible, what would it be? Flight? Cruise? Box car? He smiled grimly and wondered how much the British government was willing to splash out on its operatives. He suspected not very much. Or maybe just wished.

By the time they rolled into Podgorica central station the granite seemed grimy in the late afternoon light, wet with earlier rain and chill with the lasting moisture in the air. Le Chiffre pulled on his thigh length jacket and buttoned it tightly. He was glad there was no need to wait, as the porter took his luggage to the platform where he found his contact, Markus Vint, waiting for him. The last time he'd been to Croatia Vint had managed to secure him safe passage out of the country when things had gone against the plan. He hoped that the man could be relied upon for the same services if the need arose again.

The platform echoed with the sounds of departures and arrivals. People swarmed around them as they left the train, chatting and hugging. The young porter tried to catch his eye but Le Chiffre merely looked straight through him.

"The car is out front," Vint said stoically, his bony face and bald head making him seem like a misshapen die.

"Good," was all Le Chiffre could think to say; he took his bags and swerved the porter as he left, ignoring his downcast eyes.

The modern wonder of Podgorica city centre, with its gothic tower blocks, ornate office buildings and stylish, sail-like suspension bridge, gave way to the more rustic but pleasantly aristocratic countryside. Vint drove the car, a silver Bentley, through the orchards and vinyards and past the distant mansions until they began to climb uphill. Soon he found himself in a small cafe district. After a small personal errand to a patisserie he spotted on the way, they eventually arrived at the hotel he had booked for the week before the tournament; the very picture of the Montenegrin countryside estate. Wide palisades, castellated walls, dull grey paths of winding stone to reach a high, portcullis through which warm light and soft music spilled.

Vint threw the keys to the valet who rushed out to greet them, before accompanying Le Chiffre inside while the porters took his luggage.

"Valenka and Kratt have arrived?" he asked quietly as he pulled off his gloves.

"They got here about two hours ago. Kratt said to tell you he's gone into town to sort..." Vint quietened as the porters passed them by on the way to reception, only speaking again once they were out of earshot, "...to sort some business. Financial. Herr Mendel is just looking for some collateral, apparently."

"I thought he might," Le Chiffre said tightly, stuffing his gloves into his pocket, "I am sure Kratt will think of something. The yacht most likely."

He checked in, quickly and efficiently thanks to Mr. Borgjevič the concierge, and then declined Vint's offer to go to the bar and find a bottle of something hard with which to toast lady luck. The Serb had shrugged off his refusal with almost comical confusion before heading to the bar. Le Chiffre headed to the lifts, glad that it was a smooth ride despite the old architecture. When he arrived at his room his luggage was already placed neatly by the bed.

Or it would have been if Valenka hadn't been in the middle of tearing it open and tossing its contents across the room with a guttural scream. Le Chiffre took a moment to stand in the doorway and observe the chaos of pristine white shirts and black velvet dinner jackets flying through the air, before he calmly stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He removed his jacket and coat, carefully hanging them up in the small cupboard by the door.

"Sookin _syn!_" she screamed at him, hear face tear stained, her short, blue summer dress hanging from one shoulder.

"I would appreciate it if you would at least insult me in English," he said bluntly as he loosened his tie, "I like to know just what kind of fucker I'm being called."

"I called you a _son of a bitch_!" she growled, grabbing his spare inhaler from the messy suitcase on the bed before launching it at his head.

He dodged easily but watched her coldly regardless. She didn't waver, instead falling back from blazing anger to choking tears as her voice came in sobs.

"You're nothing but a filthy, fucking murderer. That's all you are!"

"You've heard about Leo."

"He was my friend!"

"He was your casual fuck when you couldn't find anything else," Le Chiffre countered snidely.

"It doesn't surprise me you'd say that, you heartless shit! You wouldn't know-know..." she took a moment to draw in a pained breath, clamping her hand to her mouth, eyes tight shut, "...you wouldn't _know_ what it was to be loved if it stabbed you in the _fucking_ heart!"

"And here I thought you just said I had no heart," he said, cocking his head.

She lunged for him, hands blearily aiming for his throat. She was weak willed in his hands but she twisted like a cat, all wiry strength and anger fuelled determination. When he let her go she caught him across the neck, leaving behind a searing agony which made him hiss. She stared at him for a few seconds in a shocked sort of triumph, before she seemed to come to her senses and storm from the room.

He wanted to go after her. Go after her and slam her up against the nearest wall and _explain_ to her just what sort of traitor her precious lover had been. He'd known for months that Leo and Valenka had been having an affair. It had been obvious to see in the way Leo had always volunteered to take her ashore when she wanted it, or complemented her choice of dress just to see her smile. He hadn't done anything about it because he simply did not care. If she was happy then it was nothing to him. It had been nothing to him...until Leo had happily sold both him and Valenka and his crew into the hands of Quantum as sacrifices on a silver platter.

_He would have watched you die for a measly couple of million_, he wanted to shout in her face; but he did not. Could not. He didn't want to create more of a scene than she already had, and probably would some more when she made her way to the bar red eyed and barefoot. He hoped Vint would take care of her. Stupid fool that he thought her sometimes, he was surprised by how much he didn't want to see her hurt.

"Yes, room service please," he said after dialling reception; he waited to be put through, "I have some clothes I would like laundered and ready for Tuesday. Yes. Room...twenty three. What? No, no. Tell Mr. Borgjevič I already have plans for dinner but it was kind of him to ask the kitchens to keep something aside. Yes. Thank you."

He piled the clothes in a semi-neat heap on the hope chest at the bottom of the bed, retrieved his inhaler from under the chest of drawers and tried to make himself seem as presentable as possible. When he looked in the mirror it appeared to be a vain endeavour. The dark smudges beneath his eyes seemed worse due to the pallor of his skin, the terse line of his thinly held lips showcasing his stress, the livid read scratch at his throat. He combed his hair and took a deep breath.

It's all going to work out, somehow. All of it. He opened them and stared at himself, still the same slightly ill looking, scared, tired individual he'd been moments before. He leaned forwards and placed his forehead on the glass before fishing in his pocket for his secure phone. When it rang in his hand he jumped, letting out a swift curse.

"Yes?" he bit out, knowing who it would be.

"You're bloody late," Bond said tightly.

"I am well aware. Did you call me just to inform me of the obvious?"

"I called to remind you that this isn't a normal day at the office and I'm _not_ one of your lackeys. I don't have to hang around waiting for you to decide you might want to drop by."

"In fact I think you might be," Le Chiffre said slowly as he wrote a quick note on the pad of paper by the ornate cream and white landline phone, "a shame that you're having trouble adjusting. I'm sure it'll come sooner or later."

"Fifteen minutes and I'm gone."

"I'll be twenty."

He hung up before another abrasive syllable could be spouted at him. It was both an irritant and a joy speaking to agent Bond, he found. A lesson in acerbic dialogue as well as a dance of one dry sense of humour against another. He hoped the man didn't lose his patience and knife him in the back. It would be so tiresome. He ripped the note from the pad of paper and left it on the nightstand.

_Gone for a drive. Don't call me.__  
__J._

He'd never told Valenka his real name. Had never told it to any of his associates, in fact. There was something he always found thrilling in signing his notes with a slanted '_J_'. Perhaps young Jean liked the idea, somewhere in his youthful memory. Le Chiffre shook his head and left quietly, pulling the door to and locking it behind him. He took the Bentley and drove out into the fading evening light, putting his foot down as he revved over the waves in the road, making his stomach jump.

* * *

It was with a justified and yet juvenile pleasure that he found Bond's hotel to be far less luxurious than his own. Still passable, somewhat, but there were far too many normal people filtering in and out of the main entrance. Upper-middle class tourists. Not his favourite type of person. Know-it-all attitudes and nouveau riche arrogance. Enough to make his skin crawl. He sat for a further five minutes before he became too impatient to wait any longer.

Exhausted, fractious and fed up, Le Chiffre broke the silent accord of being as discreet as possible and marched into the hotel. Despite believing himself to look truly awful, he still found he garnered quite a few envious glances as he walked to the reception desk in his dark grey and black Armani suit and matching bespoke Givenchy shoes. He allowed himself to be momentarily thankful that Bond had chosen somewhere downmarket to hide himself. He needed the ego boost.

"I am looking for Mr. Beech," he said to the young, red haired receptionist, "I believe he checked in today. He's expecting me."

"Oh, yes sir," she said in a heavy accent, quick to comply, "just a moment please. Ah, yes. Mr Beech and his fiancé are in rooms one five nine and one sixty. Would you like me to call?"

"Not necessary," he said, giving her a charming smile.

As he walked the long, carpeted hallways, footfalls turning to dull thuds, he smiled at the word _fiancé_. So, Bond had a minder, did he? Somehow he was sure that being given a partner, by the Government which obviously did not trust him to do this alone, was probably something found even more irritating than having to work with Le Chiffre himself. He laughed softly to himself. His evening was looking up considerably.

When he knocked on the door to one five nine, picking it arbitrarily from the two he'd been given, it was answered a few moments later by a slim, dark haired woman with a pile of dark hair loosely but artistically pinned at crown of her head. She eyed him narrowly before turning back into the room, which appeared to be a twin with an adjoining door sitting open, and spoke slowly but precisely with an unidentifiably tinged British accent.

"Is this some sort of joke?"

"And why the hell would I be joking about..." came a voice from the next room, nearing and nearing until Bond, fiddling with his top shirt button, walked through the door and stared blankly at him with crisp blue eyes, "fucking _Christ,_ get him in here!"

"I'll take that as an invitation," Le Chiffre said, smiling as he stepped into the room and heard the door shut behind him with a snap.

"Did you tell him to come here?" the woman asked with a calm anger that Le Chiffre couldn't help but admire.

"Of course I bloody didn't," Bond bit out, "you were supposed to meet me..."

"I am well aware of where we were supposed to meet, and when, do not lecture me Mr. Bond," Le Chiffre said uninterestedly as he ran his eyes over the room, taking in half hung up clothes, an open laptop that was disappointingly on a screensaver and an open make up set on the vanity counter, "and I must advise that you will have to learn to be flexible if you wish to survive this venture. Plans change."

"So I've learned since we so unfortunately met," Bond said, "I'm beginning to wonder if you ever had a plan or if this is all just a big, expensive set up. Or maybe you're just a moron, could be either really."

"How crass," Le Chiffre said, unable to stop his eyes from narrowing, "and here I'd thought you were brought up with manners. You haven't even introduced me to your lovely fiancé."

"Vesper Lynd," the woman said articulately before another word could be uttered by either of them, "not that I'm sure it's necessary as you probably know more than just my name. However, now that I have your attention may I be so bold as to inform you both how utterly and completely this entire operation hinges upon a lack of testosterone fuelled, boys club nonsense to have any chance at all of succeeding?"

A short silence. Bond's lips were a tight line and Le Chiffre couldn't wipe the smile from his face.

"I had certainly been informed of your name, Ms. Lynd, but my informants neglected to notify me of your unique charm," he said, "utterly spectacular."

"Excuse me if I am not flattered, Mr. Le Chiffre. James if you could perhaps take a minute to consider what we were talking about before we were so rudely interrupted, then I would appreciate it. Good evening gentlemen."

She gave him a wide smile that could have soured milk before leaving.

"And here I thought you might have had an unpleasant journey due to the transport," Le Chiffre said, smile still in place.

"Just shut your mouth," Bond said, "we're leaving before you fuck this up anymore than it already is."

They left through the kitchens and out the back door into a small alley, where a sleek, grey Aston Martin sat in the shadows of an ancient archway. Le Chiffre felt flippantly at ease. Must be the mountain air, he thought as Bond put his foot down and, he was sure, purposefully drove them out into the now pitch blackness of the countryside with ferocious speed. By the time they stopped in a small lay-by on the road which overlooked the city, he had to admit he was feeling slightly nauseous.

"At least now I am no longer hungry," Le Chiffre muttered to himself, "any particular reason we are sitting in the middle of nowhere?"

"It's almost as if," Bond began with an incredulous puff of breath, completely ignoring him, "you forgot I'm not here for _your_ benefit. I'm here to do my job."

"To kill my co-workers and entrap my employers, I am well aware," Le Chiffre said, "and of course let's not forget myself into the bargain."

"Yes, let's not forget the important details after all. You pull another stunt like that and I'll gladly put the bullet in you myself."

"Would it be worth your career?" Le Chiffre couldn't stop the sneer in his voice; the sickness in his stomach had severely dampened the lightheaded gaiety he'd been floating through earlier, no matter how hysteria induced it had all been.

"Almost," Bond said convincingly.

"Do you want the information or don't you?"

"I want you to stop jeopardising me and my mission, just so you can get some infantile kick out of these power plays."

"...Alright," Le Chiffre ground out, taking a deep breath, "if you force me to be civil."

"I'm amazed it's possible."

"Everything is in order," Le Chiffre forced himself to carry on and not be pulled in by the insult, "the tournament will begin on Wednesday without delay. Herr Mendel of the Swiss bank is handling the finances."

"We can trust him?"

"He's an old colleague."

"Then you can trust him. Can I?"

"He's a Swiss banker."

"Fair point."

"Each space has been filled, the money deposited. And the sharks have begun their circling early. Of those who have bought in there is one I know for certain will be a...problem, shall we say."

"Problem? I'm not fond of the word."

"Helena Jesper," Le Chiffre said, "the only woman at the table. When I did a background check hers was suspiciously clean and tidy shall we say."

"You think she's a plant? From whom?"

"I'm not sure yet. I have my people working on it but I can't delay and, if she turns out to be a bigger problem than I was expecting, I don't have the time or the resources just now to find a new player. If this rouse is to work we need to keep up the facade that I need the money."

"You do need the money," Bond said with a soft, unpleasant laugh, "that's the funny part."

"Hilarious."

"Oh, sorry. I left my tact in my other jacket."

"I knew this would be obnoxious," Le Chiffre said, leaning his head back against the cushioned head rest and closing his eyes, "but one is never aware just how much something will hurt until it is truly happening to them."

"Never truer words have ever been spoken," Bond agreed grimly.

The darkness was momentarily lifted and the silence broken as a car rounded the corner and drove past them in a rush of air and motor fumes. Le Chiffre bit at the inside of his lip and wondered how he had managed to fall this low. It was something of a wake-up call, being trapped in a confined space with someone who appeared to loathe him in return with equal measure and not simply be able to have them removed from his presence. Or dropped overboard.

"If you would be so kind," he said neutrally, "as to drive me back to my car."

"If you can recommend me a restraint that's open and doesn't sell the usual tourist crap, perhaps I can."

"The Catovica Mlini," he said without hesitation; suddenly his hunger returned on speaking the name, now the nausea had receded. The last time he had been, it was four year ago? Maybe five. He could still remember the taste of fresh prawns and homemade hollandaise, lobster bisque with scallops and port. He felt the wicked recklessness stealing over him once more and couldn't find the wherewithal, tired and starving as he was, to resist it, "not that you could afford it," he heard Bond inhale sharply and smiled in the dark, "no, in fact forget the fucking car. Just take me there. Drop me off. Do whatever the hell you want."

"This is ridiculous," Bond muttered.

Le Chiffre was sure it wasn't directed at him. Then the light came on, blinding him. He blinked and squinted in the glare before looking at Bond, staring at the slightly fogged glass of the windscreen. He reached out and turned the car on with a rumbling purr, pressing another button which caused the fog to diminish, Le Chiffre guessed a windshield warmer.

"Are you going to drive or am I going to have to flag down a passing car?"

"I'd pay good money to see that."

"Would you pay good money to have your kneecaps surgically realigned?"

"I don't buy your threats, you _need_ me."

"You don't need your knees to play poker," Le Chiffre smiled, shark-like, "now if you would hurry. I'd rather get there while the more desirable menu items are still available."

When nothing happened Le Chiffre looked to his left and found Bond shaking his head, that derisive smirk plastered on his face. He felt the need to smack the man's head into the steering wheel. Seeing blood would have solved a lot of anger issues he was having. Instead he decided confusing the infuriating man beside him was a far easier and less messy mode of revenge.

"I'll even treat you. It seems to be a growing trend that we have at least one passive-aggressive dinner together that I pay for."

For a moment Bond looked as if he would say something. Something insulting and inflammatory no doubt. Le Chiffre silenced him by reaching up to flick off the in-car light and reattached his seat belt, running his thumb under the soft material. Bond let out a terse snort of air and reached for the gearbox, jamming it into gear and tearing out onto the road.

* * *

**End notes** \- Serbian translated:

First of all the Porter says - "Sir, I came for the bottle,"..."are you alright..?"

Then after the kiss Le Chiffre asks him, "Ho?", which means "No?"  
to which he replies "I...should not."

Also just to say thanks to the Reviewing Master for the lovely review indeed. I'm glad someone other than me is enjoying this story!


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